


Stains Of Time

by rhia474



Series: Herald and Lion [6]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Drama, F/M, Lyrium Addiction, Lyrium Withdrawal, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery, Slow Burn, UST
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-18
Updated: 2015-05-18
Packaged: 2018-03-31 01:50:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3959893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rhia474/pseuds/rhia474
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"She comes to him through the waves of the pounding headache, nausea, chattering teeth, fever and parched throat, the muscle cramps that make him bend in half in sheer agony, the tremors that shake his body enough that his bed rattles.<br/>Through the need and the want she comes, in gauzy veils of Fade-green and lyrium-blue, his hope beyond all hope: Lady of the Hand, Herald of Ease, she comes to him. Hand lifted in silent benediction with its verdant glow, down she kneels by his bedside, veils fluttering in the breeze, and caresses his forehead with cool fingers. "</p><p>Cullen struggles with his strongest withdrawal episode to date, Hawke arrives to Skyhold and everything goes sideways.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stains Of Time

**Author's Note:**

> **Author’s Notes:**  
>  1\. Warning: this mostly will be unpleasant and rough, at least in the beginning—as dealing with withdrawal effects often is. Proceed at your own risk if you are sensitive to such things- I don’t like to revel in gory details, but I think it’s important for character development purposes. It gets better at the end, I promise.  
> 2\. There is some deviation from canon in this chapter as well; as always, I like to stay faithful to the spirit of the story and characters, rather than word-by-word repetition.  
> 3\. The Hawke here is my Marian Hawke from the _Nothing Stands Between us_ series. She is a certified snarkmonster, although the events in Kirkwall certainly left their mark on her.  
>  4\. Songs for this chapter are the quoted ones below; the quotes are from the Canticle of Transfiguration.  
>   
> 

 

 _I wear this crown of thorns,_  
_Upon my liars chair,_  
_Full of broken thoughts,_  
_I cannot repair,_  
  
_Beneath the stains of time,_  
_The feelings disappear,_  
_You are someone else,_  
_I am still right here._

_\--Johnny Cash, Hurt_

_Night falls heavy like an iron fist_  
_The silence taut and frail_  
_I weigh the depths of love and terror_  
_In this test I cannot fail_  
_‘Cause there’s no map to guide the human heart_  
_Down roads we’ve never been_  
_Sometimes I feel I’m running blind but I’m trying_

  
_\--Sarah McLachlan, Turn the Lights Down Low_

 

She comes to him in the small hours of the night, when Skyhold is silent and only the echoing footsteps of the guards on the battlements break the silence. She comes to him when the rain falls steadily outside, bringing the winter’s chill through the hole in his roof as it drips on the floor at the foot of the bed. She comes to him through the waves of the pounding headache, nausea, chattering teeth, fever and parched throat, the muscle cramps that make him bend in half in sheer agony, the tremors that shake his body enough that his bed rattles.

Through the need and the want she comes, in gauzy veils of Fade-green and lyrium-blue, his hope beyond all hope: Lady of the Hand, Herald of Ease, she comes to him. Hand lifted in silent benediction with its verdant glow, down she kneels by his bedside, veils fluttering in the breeze, and caresses his forehead with cool fingers. His eyes flutter in blessed relief as the fingers move to his cracked lips, tracing its outlines, then down gently, ever so gently across his chin, dip into the pooled sweat at the hollow of his throat and continue down on his chest, trailing moisture and cold. Her touch, even moving downward, chases away the dreams of pulsing flesh walls, the agonized screams of friends dissolving in fire, abominations chanting obscene rituals over their charred bodies… Of dark battlements, chains and dungeons, glassy-eyed Tranquils, hollow-eyed mages scuttling by, cringing at his every move as he closes his eyes and turns away, not wanting to know. Of the grotesque red statue of a woman with a curved sword towering over him, vermilion steam rising from her throat in a silent scream.

Oh, blessed is the hand which brings salvation, and blessed is she of lily-white hair, of eyes green as the wisps of the Fade through dreams, and blessed are the veins pulsing on her wrist, lyrium-blue under translucent skin… With lips red as blood, roses, and rubies of the Western desert, she leans over him, lily-white hair brushing his chest, whispering his name into his mouth as her hand, her blessed hand of green fire…

He screams her name when he wakes, heart pounding, throat and chest and loins aching and all too real in the dizzying aftermath of almost-release. He throws the covers away and staggers upright, steadying himself on the bedside table.  He feels raindrops on his naked shoulders, cooling his fever and his ardor. Concentrating on the hurt that is tearing at his guts like a rabid animal, Cullen Rutherford stands, hands balled into fists as he takes deep, gulping breaths and tries to chase away the dream that came upon him yet again, uninvited, toying with him and offering false relief in shades of fade-green and lyrium-blue.

But he remembers. He remembers everything.

Slowly, balancing precariously at the knife-edge of pain, he pulls a shirt on, finds his boots, grabs his cloak from its peg, and taking one step at the time, descends the ladder from his sleeping loft to his office below, letting himself rest with clenched teeth between every rung. It is worse than ever, the dream so real, like never before, the _need_ and the _want_ shaking him so badly he cannot clasp the cloak at his throat, and in the end he just wraps the thing around his body like an ancient Tevinter robe. The door handle slips out of his sweaty palm twice before he can open it, and the rain outside slicks his hair back as he turns his face towards the sky: for mercy or for obliteration, he’s not sure.

The rampart is blessedly free of any soldiers on patrol as he moves along the wall on legs that barely keep him upright, hand thrust out to support him. He knows he probably doesn’t have the strength right now to descend another flight of stairs and walk across the courtyard to the Chantry door, the way his instincts drove him first. He knows he is soaking wet, barely dressed, and probably will throw up in a minute, noisily and messily, like he did just after midnight and the day before. He knows he probably has reached the end of his rope. The contents of the small case he still keeps in the drawer of his desk _sing_ to him every single day now, a treacherous but beautiful siren song that becomes harder and harder to resist as he struggles with withdrawal and maintaining the façade of relative normalcy during daytime. Maker help him, but he thought he could be strong enough for this, that he could bear it, he could weather the storm…

Maker forgive him, he was proud enough to think he was better than anyone.

 _That dream… Andraste preserve me, that dream_ , he thinks, thoughts swirling in Fade-green and lyrium-blue, arms supporting him shaking from the effort to stay upright. He knows exactly what brought it on, too. Ever since their first chess game in the Chantry garden, he can’t get her out of his head.

 _Her_.

Roxanne Trevelyan. The Herald of Andraste. The Inquisitor.

Cullen grits his teeth, remembering the way her hair glinted in the sunlight filtered through the branches, the graceful sweep of her neck as she pondered her moves, her long fingers, moving the pieces on the board with the same decisiveness she grips her sword on the practice ground… The curve of her lip, slightly exposing a crooked tooth as she smiled. That very Orlesian shrug of hers, that, combined with the flutter of her hands when she got relaxed and started talking about her family, made him stare like completely, utterly besotted first-year squire might look at his lord’s daughter.

 _I am gone_ , he admits, gritting his teeth. _Not only am I smitten by the Herald of Andraste, I‘m having dreams about her. With me. In my room. In my bed. Maker help me, I am imagining her hand on me, like a sixteen-year old novice imagines the resident Chantry sister…_

The words of the _Chanticle of Transfigurations_ rise in his thoughts, although they don’t make it to his lips. He can only grasp them piece by piece in his mind, painstakingly slotting the sentences together, as he clings to them for some semblance of order and sanity.

 _O Maker, hear my cry:_  
_Guide me through the blackest nights_  
_Steel my heart against the temptations of the wicked_  
_Make me to rest in the warmest places._

He grips the wet stone of the merlon he’s leaning against and gulps the air and the rain in great, shuddering sighs as another ripple of the shakes tears through his body. He badly overestimated how much he can endure with the increased workload the rapidly expanding Inquisition army demands of him. His reluctance of delegating finally has caught up with him, throwing his already weakened body and mind into the throes of the worst withdrawal episode since he has left the Order.

And, on top of everything else (as if the admission of his feelings towards the Inquisitor would not be enough) the memories are back… because _Hawke_ is here. Arrived just yesterday, quietly, secretly let into Skyhold by Varric, bringing disturbing news of her fall from power in Kirkwall and how the Templars there, his former comrades, were the cause of her hasty departure. He only saw her briefly: Varric brought her to his office first so she can meet the Inquisitor away from everyone.

_“Look at you.” Her lopsided grin did not change at all, but there was early silver in her hair now (Maker, and she is two years younger than he). She looked tired and worn in her old Champion armor, all scuffed and muddy from her travel. “Commander-General of the Inquisition and all that. Nice office, too.” For a second the old, irresistible Hawke with her natural force of personality was back as she stooped slightly to kiss his cheek. “I knew you would go up in the world, Cullen.”_

He should have known better and taken precautions: if anything could trigger his memories and slip past his carefully built walls of defense, it was her being right there, standing alongside the Inquisitor. His grip slackens on the stone and he feels himself swaying, balance almost lost as the rain gets harder and Nature adds wind to her arsenal. He almost crawls to the little guard shelter built at the side of the tower here and slides down by the wall once inside, burrowing into his bearskin cloak for warmth as he huddles on the stone floor, shivering. The Canticle rolls at the back of his mind like the pounding of waves on Lake Calenhad’s shore so long ago.

 _O Creator, see me kneel:_  
_For I walk only where You would bid me_  
_Stand only in places You have blessed_  
_Sing only the words You place in my throat_

Looking at it with the dispassionate and analyzing eyes that he normally uses to evaluate strategy or review chess moves, he could see it clearly now, but it does not help. Strong emotions are usually to be avoided for people in his condition, doubly-cursed as he is with his memories and his withdrawal, and he _knows_ this. He was always such a painful mess when dealing with Hawke, with the way she just _gave_ her friendship freely and without obligations, despite him being who he was, despite her knowing and _not caring_. With her trying to convince him that he still could turn himself around, regardless of what happened at Kinloch Hold, regardless of all that happened in Kirkwall’s Circle and him being second-in-command there.

_“I’m your friend, you great big lump,” Hawke told him after he accepted Cassandra’s offer of becoming commander of the newly founded Inquisition. After he told her he was leaving. “Of course I understand.”_

If she thought there was something worth that trust and friendship in him, if she thought he could turn over a new leaf and start over, than maybe it was worth all of this. Worth the shakes, the fever, the nausea, the dull pain that is constantly throbbing in his skull now, the _want_ and the _need_ that saps his strength away day by day as he fights the effects of not being a Templar any more with tooth and nail. Of being just an ordinary man, leading an army of extraordinary means for an extraordinary purpose, serving an extraordinary woman…

 _My Maker, know my heart_  
_Take from me a life of sorrow_  
_Lift me from a world of pain_  
_Judge me worthy of Your endless pride_

Cullen closes his eyes and thinks about the way Hawke nudged the Inquisitor standing by her side in his cramped office. She looked travel-worn, skinny, disheveled, and sleep-deprived next to the crisp perfectness of Roxanne’s black brocade doublet, freshly polished boots and hair pinned neatly in a tight bun, but her grin and the force of her personality outshone all of that.

_“Isn’t he just magnificent?” Marian Hawke whispered, voice all bubbly and proud with an almost-but-not-quite sisterly affection, and Cullen felt horrified at just how utterly improper this was. “Absolutely glorious? Like a sodding lion, isn’t he?”_

_He expected many things to happen that morning and what definitely wasn’t on his list was being ogled semi-inappropriately by an old friend, and in front of the Inquisitor of all people. But then he saw Roxanne blush, up to her ears and down to the neckline of her doublet, freckles standing out crimson-dark in the paler shade of her skin, like the most delicate dewdrops on a rose petal. He saw her nod, tremulously, but definitely, biting the corner of her lip just a tiny little bit while doing so, looking at him from under lowered lashes and the flash of heat that went through him seeing that was almost unbearable. Hawke, of course, burst out laughing, squeezed the younger woman’s shoulder and muttered something in her ear. Cullen couldn’t hear what it was, but if Roxanne’s open-eyed incredulous look and stumbling backwards step was anything to go by, it was entirely inappropriate. And so he, naturally, turned towards his bookshelf and started to study the spine of In Pursuit of Knowledge: The Travels of a Chantry Scholar, Volume 22._

Now, in the shelter of the battlement’s tiny guard chamber, he takes one more shaking breath, and feels something warm, sleek, and fuzzy bump his hand. Cullen opens his eyes just in time to see an orange, slightly wet mass of fur with sharp claws and scarred ears climbs into his lap. Adjutant Felix, Skyhold’s resident ruling tomcat and his self-appointed companion purrs almost as loud as his own heartbeat as he attempts to make himself comfortable and Cullen almost laughs out loud through the haze of pain and shivers at the insistent way the cat tries to burrow against him. He has heard about the way cats and dogs comfort those who are truly in need of it: seen it in the infirmary here in Skyhold, in fact. He just never expected to receive it from this animal in particular.

 _My Creator, judge me whole:_  
_Find me well within Your grace_  
_Touch me with fire that I be cleansed_  
_Tell me I have sung to Your approval_

“I must be a… sorry mess if _you_ want to… comfort me,” The words are coming out broken and tumbled, voice rough from pain and thirst, as he digs his trembling fingers into warm fur. There is, of course, no answer, except the purring gets a bit louder. “Perhaps… you just… wanted to get out of the rain.”

 _Or, perhaps, this is more than either of those_? Cullen shivers again, as he considers the possibility that in an odd way, this might be an answer to his prayers, and whispers the final verse of the _Canticle_ with true fervor.

 _O Maker, hear my cry:_  
_Seat me by Your side in death_  
_Make me one within Your glory_  
_And let the world once more see Your favor_  
  
_For You are the fire at the heart of the world_  
_And comfort is only Yours to give._

“You’re sodding hard to find, you know that?” Cullen hears through the rain suddenly, and as he grasps at his side in vain for his sword, he realizes just how easy would be for anyone with ill intent to finish him now, rain-soaked, shaking and weak from fever.

And just how badly off he is, thinking he could be attacked in the middle of Skyhold.

“What were you thinking, strolling out here in the rain and muttering the Chant, hm?” Marian Hawke slides down to sit next to him, legs stretched out in front of her, body sensibly wrapped in an ugly but practical waxed leather cloak, and winks.

“I could ask the same thing from you…” he croaks out through parched lips. Hawke looks at him sharply.

“ _I_ just couldn’t sleep. Decided to take a walk and think. You, though…” Her fingers touch his forehead, grab the side of his face, and tilt his head sharply towards her. “Shit, Cullen, you’re sick.” Her eyes slide down to where Felix watches, sitting up warily, through narrowed eyes. “ _And_ you have a cat? What the Fade?”

“Long story. Both.” He’s not inclined to explain any of that right now. “Just… need some time to… get better.”

“Bullcrap.” Hawke says gently. “I could always tell when you tried to be a hero, remember?” She pushes some of his rain-slicked hair out of his forehead. “I leave you to your own devices for a while and this is how you end up?”

“Look who’s talking, _Viscountess_.” That comes out a bit harsher that he intends to, and from the way Hawke recoils, he knows he hurt her a bit. “Shit.” He doesn’t curse often, but it slips out, seeing the pain on Hawke’s face so openly. “Forgive me, that was…”

“Awful, yes, but I let it slide this once.” Hawke shakes her head, concern etched around her mouth. “Seriously, Cullen, what’s going on? Do you…” She stops, eyes narrowing, then suddenly leans into his neck and _sniffs_ him.

“ _What_ are you doing?” Cullen can’t really raise his voice; he doesn’t have the strength, and the way his hand pushes ineffectively on Hawke’s arm tells him he really is in a miserable condition.

“Idiot.” Hawke whispers fiercely as she straightens, eyes shining. “You forget I had a mage sister and I live with a Tevinter ex-slave who is etched with the stuff. You stopped taking lyrium: I can’t smell it on you anymore. Maker, Cullen, you...”

“I’m not a Templar any more, Hawke,” Cullen feels he is repeating a conversation he already had. His head thuds against the stone of the wall as he leans back, slightly panting from the effort of talking. “No lyrium. Blue or red.” He pauses again. “There are… side effects.”

“No shit.” Hawke grunts. “You kind of looked pale but serviceable when we’ve met earlier, you gorgeous lion, you…” Cullen snorts feebly at that, and Hawke grins as both of them remember, “…but this… How long?”

“Couple of months.” He feels another wave of nausea grip him and he leans forward, stomach heaving, throat contracting: Felix jumps off his lap with a very disappointed huffing sound and disappears from sight. “Sorry,” Cullen pants, to both Hawke and the cat, then, “I’m going to…” he grinds out as he tries to push up on his knees.

“Stop being polite and just hurl, man.” Hawke’s arm slides around his shoulder as his whole body shakes violently. “There you go…” Cullen should be mortified, and terribly so, except he remembers things the two of them have been through and those memories made him cease to be really embarrassed by anything in Marian Hawke’s company.

So he heaves and gags and coughs and spits without dignity or regard to anything but the pain. There’s nothing but bile coming up as he wasn’t really able to keep anything down all day. Hawke holds him up and pushes his hair out of his face and croons encouraging nonsense at him and wipes his mouth with the edge of her cloak and thus they are perfectly unaware of anything else, until a sharp intake of breath and a scuff of a booted foot makes both of them glance up briefly.

“Oh, shit,” Hawke mutters, and Cullen, though the haze of another spasm of pain coming, sees Roxanne leaning against the jamb of the guard shelter, face pale and one hand covering her mouth.

The situation is at once awkward and absurd; Hawke freezes for a second and her hand grips Cullen’s arm a bit tighter than necessary.

“Just what…” She inhales sharply: Cullen feels her body rise, pressed as he is against her. “Listen, Inquisitor, as you see we have a wee problem here.” She gestures at Cullen with her free hand. “I could sure use your help.”

“I can see that.” Roxanne’s voice is steady and even; Cullen sees her kneeling down on his other side, but then he needs to close his eyes and fight the urge to vomit again. “What do you want me to do, _serah_?”

“That a girl.” Hawke murmurs, fondness in her voice. “I believe that between the two of us we can get our dear Commander back to his office, maybe to his bed somehow, without calling undue attention to the fact that we’re doing it. Would you terribly mind?”

“Not the least.” Roxanne sounds like they are discussing the weather. Cullen opens his eyes to a narrow slit, tentatively: he knows she is not just another phantom conjured by his sickened mind because she is wearing her usual running-around-Skyhold all-black outfit under what looks like a thick woolen cloak lined with wolfskin. _Not a gauzy veil in sight_ , Cullen thinks somewhat relieved, as his head spins steadily. He’s not sure why she’s here on the battlements, but given how Hawke couldn’t sleep after their brief meeting today due to whatever else happened before and since she arrived here, maybe Roxanne also felt the need for a stroll in the rain.

“I am assuming this is a lyrium withdrawal side effect, then?” he hears Roxanne asking and for a second he thinks this is just his delirium playing tricks with his mind again.

“Well, he sure as shit isn’t huddling here because he wanted to _tumble_ me, honeychild,” Hawke says drily, and Cullen would be mortified by both what he says and how she addresses the Inquisitor, if he wasn’t already shaken by the fact that Roxanne said…

“You…know?” he croaks out, sharp pain slicing into his skull at every word, and the way Roxanne’s mouth twitches just then makes him ashamed of the fact that somehow he never quite got around telling her.

“I believe it _is_ a reasonably good habit for the Inquisitor to be aware of the most pressing issues and potential vulnerabilities of her Inner Circle and advisors.” Her voice is crisp but her eyes are distant. “Cassandra was kind enough to brief me on your…particular situation.”

“Andraste’s dimpled buttcheeks, do you always talk like that?” Hawke stares, disbelieving. “I thought it was just for fancy meetings.” Over Cullen’s head, the two women stare at each other and he really rather would be somewhere else just then. The moment passes, though, and Hawke chuckles. “Of course you do, Lady Trevelyan. Never you mind me, let’s get him inside; we can chitchat later.”

“Agreed.” Roxanne’s voice is cold but her arm slides under his shoulder from the other side, and she’s warm, so _warm_ and he’d be absolutely ashamed by his body’s reaction to her if he wasn’t busy trying not to retch yet again…”On the count of three, then: one, two, three…”

 _Make me to rest in the warmest places._ Cullen almost giggles as they haul him upright and the line from _Transfigurations_ sneaks into his mind absurdly again; he knows this is definitely his mind going delirious from the fever of withdrawal, and can’t help the almost-sob that escapes his lips.

“Careful!” Hawke hisses on his left, thinking they caused him pain. “I’ll count the steps out so we’re in accord: let’s hope no one sees us.”

“We will be fine.” Roxanne’s breath tickles his ear as she turns her head to speak to the other woman. “I know the guard rotation: we have about quarter glass to get to his office. That is plenty: we are about the same height and I am assuming you are used to carrying weight with heavy armor, so…”

“Mightily kind of you, that assumption.” Hawke murmurs, slightly amused. “Also, correct.” He feels her take a deep breath. “And… left and right and left and right and left…”

By the time they drag him across the threshold of his office and close the door behind them, Hawke is swearing and instead of her, Roxanne is counting the steps. Between clenched teeth, too, Cullen can tell, while he’s concentrating on _not_ passing out.

“Maker’s Bride on a stick, you’re heavy, Cullen!” Hawke grunts, shoving the door close and leaning against it for a moment. “What do they feed you here, bronto steaks by the dozen? Good thing you’re not in armor.”

“He is not eating that much.” Roxanne’s arm shifts under his shoulder; her hip presses into his side for a moment and Cullen bites his lip. “I receive reports on the eating habits of my advisors on a regular basis.”

 _She is what now_? Cullen’s thoughts flicker like a candle before gutting out, but that somehow brings him back to semi-consciousness.

 _She knows when and what I eat? Same on Josie? And… Leliana?_ Cullen would have thought it would be _her_ furnishing the reports.

“Why am I not surprised you keep tabs on your people?” Hawke mutters, and Cullen has to agree. “So—all muscle, then. Corn-fed Fereldan boy. Maker, I should have known. All right, how do we do this up the ladder?”

“I can…do it,” Cullen croaks out, because really, there is such a thing as man’s dignity, and getting hauled unceremoniously across the battlements by two women clearly pushed his to its limits. “Just…give me a moment.”

“Well, welcome to the world of the living, sweetheart.” Hawke drawls. “You reckon we can put him in a chair for that moment, Lady Trevelyan? My legs are not quite what they used to be ten years ago.”

“Only if you call me by my name, Lady Hawke,” Roxanne responds. “And I believe your legs are just fine.”

Hawke chuckles.

“Fair enough…Roxanne. I guess maybe we’ll get along just fine, huh? Now let’s see if… aw, shit, not again…” she says in dismay, because yes, Cullen feels the nausea sweep him under again and his knees buckle as the hammer of pain finally pounds him into unconsciousness.

The next thing he knows, he’s on his bed, arms and legs slightly dangling, and someone’s messing with his shirt.

“Sod these stupid laces…” That’s Hawke’s voice. “How’s the boots?” she asks casually, and Cullen feels a tug at his feet.

_There’s just no way…_

“What…?” he manages to choke out, and risks half-opening his eyes. The world still hurts, but in a somehow more manageable way, he hopes.

“Sorry, sweetheart,” Hawke looks up at him with that crooked grin of hers. Something smells horrible, and Hawke is in her shirtsleeves. “I’m afraid you had something in your tummy after all. Stuff needs to go. You upchucked all over yourself.” She pauses. “Also, over us. Fun times.”

 _Maker_. _I threw up all over the Champion and Viscountess of Kirkwall and the Inquisitor._

_Also, if Hawke is messing with my shirt, it is…_

“Inquisitor!” he blurts out, horrified, mortified and embarrassed all at the same time, and tries to sit up.

“Tsk, tsk, tsk.” Hawke shakes her head and _pushes_ , and Cullen flops back on his pillow, as he realizes he absolutely has no strength. “Recovering lyrium addict will _not_ play the strong stoic hero, all right? Recovering lyrium addict will lie down quietly, concentrate on not hurling all over his helpers, and endure.” She wiggles her eyebrows. “If you’re lucky, we’ll leave the smalls on. Relax, I got this, really,” she whispers into his ear, fingers still on his shirt, then louder. “Roxanne, honeychild, would you awfully mind going and see if you can find hot water and a towel or two so we can clean this boy and maybe ourselves up?”

“Yes, ma’am,” comes the crisp and, Cullen thinks hazily and _very_ gratefully, somewhat relieved answer from the foot of his bed. He hears footsteps. “I shall see what I can do.”

“Good girl.” Hawke murmurs as Roxanne descends on the ladder and Cullen relaxes a bit. “She will keep it under wraps, to be sure, so no one knows the mighty Commander is feeling poorly. I told you to relax!” she snaps suddenly, as Cullen, feebly, tries to move. “Be glad this hasn’t happened in front of half Skyhold in broad daylight. Idiot,” she adds, but fondly, and her movements with which she quickly and efficiently strips him down to his smalls and tucks him under his blanket are gentle: Cullen, truth to be told, is in too much hurt to do anything but watch her face as she does it.

“There,” she says briskly as she tucks the blanket around his waist. “It’s nothing I haven’t done or seen before, and your dignity is still intact.” Cullen nods, remembering her administering to the injured after the final battle of Kirkwall, himself included. “She would have done it too, poor girl, but she was trembling so hard I thought she might actually faint. Odd, for a big bad-ass warrior lady. I figured she wasn’t…”

Her eyes open wide for a second, and Cullen wants fervently to be somewhere else.

“Sweet Andraste.” Hawke says quietly and sits down right next to him on the bed with a heavy thump. “I’m getting stupid in my old age. _Of course_.” She pats his arm. “How bad is it?”

Cullen clears his throat: _this is Hawke_ , he reminds himself.

“On a scale of one to ten?” he asks, lips twisting in a self-mocking smile as he stares at the ceiling. “I would rate myself a fifteen or so.”

“Pffft.” Hawke makes a face. “Fenris would have caught it right away: he always said about you that when you finally fall, you’d fall so hard you didn’t even know what hit you. And there you go.”

“And there I go.” Cullen nods. Now that the worse of the attack is over, and he slowly comes to terms with the fact that Hawke is here and part of his past returned, _this_ is easier to actually admit somehow, too.

At least to _her_.

They stay there in companionable silence a little while, then Hawke chuckles.

“You know,” she says, a real smile on her features and suddenly she looks so much younger, like when he saw her the first time in the Gallows Courtyard, “it’s nice to know you’re human, too, after all. I mean, yes, I know you visited the _Rose_ on a fairly regular basis and took care of business for _health reasons_ and the girls thought you were just the best client ever, but…Maker, stop blushing, sweetheart, I thought you outgrew that.”

“Dignity, Hawke,” Cullen says feebly. “Remember _that_?”

“Nah, I lost it along with my virginity a _looong_ time ago,” Hawke grins and Cullen groans, because he actually _knows_ that story, too, she shared with him over a lot of Starkhaven _uisce_ one long night, years ago. “So: the Trevelyan girl. Walks on water, huh?”

“Walked out of the Fade and from under a mountain that fell on her, actually.” Cullen says quietly. “Close enough.”

“Yeah, heard the stories. Varric sent a couple letters, too.” Hawke sweeps her hair out of her face: still the same unruly mess it used to be back in Kirkwall, and Cullen looks at her fondly. “It’s just odd to see her in person and realizing that all of that is actually true. Herald of Andraste, Inquisitor, _and_ stealer of your heart: quite a devastating list of accomplishments there.” She takes a deep breath. “Now we just need to get you into shape so you can sweep her off her feet and…”

“Hawke,” Cullen sighs, head spinning again, and is just about to start explaining how this is absolute madness because Roxanne deserves so much more than a washed-up ex-Templar who pukes all over himself, has debauched dreams featuring her dressed in nothing but gauzy veils and probably has to resign his position after this is over, when he hears the door open downstairs with a quiet creak.

“I am back.” Roxanne’s voice is quiet but strong and clear, with just a tiny tremor at the end. Cullen marvels at the fact that he can discern all those little details from it, including the undercurrent of ‘I’m enunciating extra clearly just in case there is something going on up there’. “Is he…all right?”

“No more puking if that’s what you mean, honeychild,” Hawke answers cheerfully. “Also, he’s conscious for the moment so yay. Not sure how long though, so bring that water up, will you?”

“Oh.” _Is that relief or nervousness_ , Cullen wonders for a second. Then Roxanne’s face appears at the end of the ladder and his thoughts all go sideways seeing her, strong-limbed and graceful as a cat, climbing up to _his bedroom_.

_Andraste preserve me._

 “The water in this is hot,” she says briskly to Hawke, lifting a waterskin behind her. “I believe I saw an empty jug here earlier and… ah.  Hello, Commander,” she breathes as their eyes met, voice somehow going down a register, cheeks coloring to that absolutely delicate shade of red he can’t stop admiring.

“Inquisitor,” he whispers. “I…haven’t had the chance to thank you yet and…to apologize for…”

“Maker’s Breath, you two are _way_ too formal with each other,” Hawke bursts out, eyes suspiciously bright and dancing between them, “considering that you,” she points at Roxanne, “just helped to drag _his_ sorry puking ass” finger pointing at him,  “back here, and you” finger still pointing at Cullen, “completely ruined her doublet.” She tilts her head to the side, looking at Roxanne now. “Maybe I should let you do this all by yourself just to get you two more…acquainted, hm?”

And Roxanne shrugs. So help the Maker, she shrugs that fine Orlesian shrug of hers, face completely serene and void of her earlier blush now, unclasps her cloak, lets it fall to the floor and calmly starts to turn up her shirtsleeves.

“Oh, _la_ ,” she says. “It is nothing I have not done while Fredick was in bed for weeks with a couple of broken ribs he acquired during weapons practice a few years back. I believe I can manage.” She lifts her eyebrow at Hawke. “I am told you are acquainted with our former weaponmaster…?”

Hawke chuckles, but she sounds tired.

“Nice. I never had the stomach for that fancy Game shit, but you’re good.” She takes a deep breath and Cullen winces, because he does know that expression that stalks her features right now very well, from many battles across Kirkwall. “Yes, of course I am ‘acquainted’ with Fenris. I’m married to him, in fact, so you can calm down and put away any notions of me trying to steal your Commander.”

“Oh, is that what it is called in Kirkwall?” Roxanne says delicately, lifting the empty jug from behind his dressing screen in the corner. “Do pardon me, I am not quite familiar with the peculiarities of local dialects.” She pauses, voice still completely neutral. “Or is it a Fereldan expression? Your family came from this little village called Lothering, correct?”

“Ladies.” Cullen says as crisply as he can into the ensuing silence that is, for all intents and purposes, _lethal_. “If it’s all the same to you, I would like to rest now.” He clears his throat and hopes fervently that his voice does not falter. “I do appreciate the assistance in getting me back here, but…”

“Oh no, sweetheart.” Hawke stands up and slides around the bed in one sinuous movement that, Cullen notices, does not mean she takes off her eyes of Roxanne for even a second. “You’re not getting off so easy. After all, someone has to make sure you’re not choking on your own vomit before morning comes.” She grins her full set of teeth at the younger woman. “Not to mention deal with the inevitable explanations; and who’s to do that better than the mighty Inquisitor and Herald of Andraste?” She stretches, hands clasped and arms straining upwards, muscles rippling under her close-fitting leathers. “No, this old woman is going to go and sleep now, before the inevitable War Council meeting crap tomorrow.” She whirls around, and she’s off the loft and the ladder before Cullen finishes blinking. “A pleasure, truly, Roxanne,” she calls out from below, then a creak, a click… and she’s gone.

 _Well, shit_ , Cullen thinks, and he’s just about to open his mouth to stammer out something suitably apologetic, when…

“Well, _shit_ ,” he hears as clear as day from the corner. He whips his head around to stare at Roxanne, open-mouthed…

_Did she just… swear?..._

…and the pain stabs him between the eyes with a particularly well-placed ice-pick to punish him for all of his worldly sins, it seems.

Mighty Commander of the Inquisition’s forces or no, Cullen Rutherford lets out a very un-Commander-like moan before he passes out this time, his last feeble thought being the ardent wish of not vomiting all over the woman he learned to cherish above all else in the world.

Consciousness returns slowly and in tiny increments, and he gradually becomes aware of dappled sunlight on his eyelids, its warmth soothing on his arms and chest. There is blessedly no pain, just weariness and heavy limbs, reminding him of lassitude he felt as a child after a bad chest infection.

He opens one eye first, then the second. It is full daylight, and guilt stabs his straight in the chest, making him sit full upright in his bed. He hasn’t slept like this in…in…His mind can’t come up with a time, really, not since they came to Skyhold, not back in Haven, maybe not even in the last years in Kirkwall. As he tentatively stretches his limbs and tries to swing his legs off the bed, the realization that last night was not just a really bad nightmare hits him, exacerbated by the fact that he finds himself naked excepting his smalls. Reflexively wrapping his bedsheet around his waist (because he remembers parts of last night, and it is entirely possible that his office door is unlocked, or that there is a guard left downstairs), he attempts to proceed down the ladder, and finds that albeit there’s some residual nausea in the pit of his stomach, he feels remarkably better.

“While I am, naturally, relieved to see you up and about,” he hears the dry and precise diction he knows oh so well by now, and he freezes, one foot still on the last rung of the ladder, “I cannot in good conscience endorse you walking around so soon after your… episode.” A pause. “Also, I just sent for the morning reports and I am not entirely certain Jim, the day runner, would care to see you _en deshabille_.”

“Maker’s Breath!” Cullen turns very, very carefully and faces his desk. Amidst neat stacks of paper and parchment carefully separated from his piles she sits, expression serene, hair in its usual tight bun, shirt crisp, fresh and starched, doublet neatly hung on the back of the chair. A large tray sits on the floor by the chair, with a silver pot and an empty plate and she cradles a larger than her usual cup in her hand, steam curling in lazy ribbons around her face.

“In other words, Cullen,” she continues, in the same tone, “I would very much like you to go back up and rest a little bit more.” She pauses. “Please?” she adds, somewhat tentatively, and lifts the cup in her hand. “I would offer some of this, but given how many times _you_ …ah, offered the almost nonexistent contents of your stomach last night, I feel it would be imprudent.”

“You… stayed?” The words stumble out in a rush as his legs carry him forward almost at their own volition, until he stands right next to her, yet again shaken by the realization just how _young_ she is, especially like this, all curled up in his chair, legs tucked under, stockinged toe peeking out a bit. Her boots are under the desk, next to a small black box that is halfway open: Cullen can see a corner of a rag, a small bottle of polishing oil and buffing brush from where he’s standing. Her bootkit looks the exact same as his, and that makes him absurdly happy.

“I… thank you,” he offers into the awkward pause, realizing he’s rubbing at the old wound at his neck again, and hastily drops his hand to make sure the sheet around his waist still holds.

 “Of course I did.” Roxanne clears her throat, keeping her eyes very carefully on his face, he notices. “In case you do not remember, I am returning the favor you accorded to me several times now.” She shrugs, trying to keep her voice neutral, nonchalant, even, but Cullen catches the way the vein on her neck beats just a little bit too fast, and there is the slightest hint of that delightfully rose-colored blush on her cheeks. “It was no bother, really: after I cleaned you up a couple of times, you slept rather quietly, so I even managed to slumber a bit myself.” She smiles, and Cullen’s fingers twitch as he very much wants to trace that smile with his fingers. “Also, I am very sorry to say this, but you snore.”

“I do not,” he says reflexively and a bit indignantly, and concentrates on not reddening, because _Maker_ , if he does now, he has no shirt on and…

“Do too,”  Roxanne retorts, almost absentmindedly, and sips from her cup with a deep sigh. The sound of her contentment makes his legs buckle; he hastily pulls up the only other chair in his office and sits down, perhaps a little more forcefully than he wanted to.

“So: all these papers…” he says, hoping that this will not turn any more awkward, watching her sipping her morning drink and feeling oddly guilty, almost as if he’s eyesdropping on something intensely private “…are yours?”

“Most of them weekly reports I am overdue initialing, a summary of diplomatic alliance offerings from Josie, ah, Josephine…” Cullen grins behind his hand at the slip, “and some preliminaries on the Western Approach I need to look over.” She waves a hand at the corner of the desk.” I moved a stack from there when your cat came in around dawn through the roof and sat there for a while. He was most likely wondering what I was doing here, but it seems we have a truce for now. He checked on you when the sun started to hit the bed, or perhaps he just wanted to curl up on a sunbeam. Mother’s favorite cat did that all the time.” She grimaces.” I am afraid he also marked on your pile of laundry before he scratched the door and mortified Elan who brought in some herbs for the burner.”

“Burner.” Cullen repeats a bit feebly, understanding the faint medicinal scent hanging in the air now: if Skyhold’s herbalist and the day runner were here, that means…

“Oh, she was kind enough to take the clothes to the laundresses,” Roxanne hastens to add; not that this makes Cullen feel any better. “The herbs helped with the smell and I used up the bunch I brought with me when I made your second wash.” And that explains why his skin smells like lavender and elfroot. Then the image of Roxanne sitting on his bed with a steaming bowl of scented water, smoothing a washrug over his skin flashes into his mind, and sends an entirely inappropriate amount of heat and blood southward. He ducks his head and takes a deep breath, remembering some useful Templar breathing techniques.

 She finally notices his almost-panicked expression and tilts her head.

“Are you… feeling all right?” she asks, anxiously. “I do think you really ought to lie down. Also, before I forget: you have a hole in your roof and Lieutenant Barris says he can take the practice sessions today since he’s here for the week anyway for resupply.”

“Perhaps… if I take this slowly and ask questions?” Cullen offers; this does make his head spin, although it’s nothing like last night, not even close.

“I am sorry,” Roxanne says quickly and bites her lip. “I am babbling; I assure you, I am not…”

“Roxanne.” He watches her swallow and subside, and decides to hedge his bets now on a move he’s never played before: he leans forward and takes her hand in his. “It’s all right: I am not exactly the paragon of flowery speech or coherent thinking right now myself.” The feel of her fingers against his sends a thousand little pinpricks through his skin; this is the first time that he goes not wear gloves when they touch. The callouses on her hand match his own almost exactly from years of hard swordwork, and that, oddly enough, gives him the strength to continue. “Since you already know I stopped taking lyrium, I won’t bore you with long explanations. I’m still able to use some of the Templar powers; they fade slower than the lyrium empties from my body. But it has been…oh, almost a year now, I think.” He pauses, gathering his thoughts into some sort of coherency, because Maker, she deserves to hear this from his lips. “When I left Kirkwall, with Cassandra. After I resigned, I couldn’t… I wouldn’t be bound to the Order, or that life any longer. Whatever the suffering, I accept it.” He huffs. “Or so I thought. Puking my guts out all over you and Hawke wasn’t quite part of the plan.”

Roxanne’s mouth twitches into a small smile and something in the pit of Cullen’s stomach eases.

“That is quite understandable.” She nods, as if she just decided something and her fingers tighten on his even more. “Cullen, you were…rather poorly last night. I…happen to be somewhat familiar with how Templars are trained and with the effects of lyrium exposure.” She must have noticed Cullen’s slightly doubting expression because she grimaces and says, a bit impatiently. “Another long story, _Commander_ , about my family connections and days in Val Royeaux that one of these days I would be more than happy to share with you perhaps over a glass of wine. For now, it is of no importance. What is, though, is I know that this _could kill you_.”

“Well, it hasn’t yet.” He lifts his other hand, placating. “ _Not_ that I’m trying to deny the severity of what’s happening to me. Or to make light of what this might mean for the Inquisition. As you probably know, I have talked about this to Cassandra and I’ve asked her to watch me. If my ability to lead is compromised, I will be relieved of duty.”

 _I have to keep this as professional as possible. Despite the fact that I’m sitting here dressed in a sheet, holding hands with her, and the way she’s curled up on my chair makes me want just to reach out, pull her to my lap and_ …

“You’re in pain,” Roxanne states that, not asks, but after last night, that much should be obvious to her.

“I can endure it,” he answers, simply, because honestly, right now, sitting here, looking at her and holding her hand, he could pretty much take on an entire platoon of Red Templars. Even though he knows this is just a momentary thing, and she’s probably more concerned about the stability of the Inquisition’s military arm than him in person. She is a bann’s daughter, half-Orlesian, skilled in the Game and trained as a chevalier. Maker, what is he _thinking_ , hoping that…

“Understood.” She nods firmly, her next words oddly formal, a she makes a little bow while sitting. “And I respect your decision.” She is slipping back into the cadences and rituals of her training, her old world: he can feel it. Cullen sighs, a bit wistfully, because every good thing must end sooner or later and this, this just sitting here ad watching her and talking like they were…equals feels very much _right_.

“You… have to know just how grateful I am for your help last night.” He knows he cannot match her for eloquence, his education and upbringing nowhere near as high as hers, but experience needs to count for something. “The Inquisition’s army must  _always_  take priority. Should anything happen… I will defer to Cassandra’s judgment.” This probably would sound much better with him fully dressed, and Cullen dearly wishes for his armor right now.  “And now I must insist that you return to your quarters before…”

 _Before someone draws inappropriate conclusions about you spending the night in my quarters. Before someone, such as Jim, the day runner comes in and finds me in a bedsheet holding the Inquisitor’s hand. Before I do something that I shouldn’t_ …

“Cullen, you are _sick_.” Roxanne does not withdraw her hand. “No one needs to know _what kind_ of sick, but you are not well.” The tiny smile that appears on her face would be, on anyone else, called slightly mischievous, but Cullen knows Roxanne Trevelyan does not do mischievous. Ever.

 _Or does she_? He realizes that he’d really, really like to find it out.

“I let Leliana and Josephine know that you required some rest and as I happened to come upon you  while indisposed, I decided to make sure you recovered as smoothly as possible, and that includes assisting with the paperwork that normally takes over half of your day. They did and do take care of the rest of the details.” She lifts an eyebrow and assumes her best Lady Trevelyan face. “I _am_ the Inquisitor, after all. I have a certain… influence over Skyhold, I believe, besides running around in charming locales pacifying the countryside with small-unit surgical strikes.” Her fingers tighten around Cullens’ and he’s suddenly, absurdly, and illogically hopeful. “Now you go ahead and climb back to bed and rest for the remainder of today.” She lifts a finger upwards, pointing at the loft. “Rest assured, that hole on your roof will be patched, and as soon as possible. I do understand that you did not wish to dedicate resources to your private quarters when so much of Skyhold proper remains under restoration still, but the winter snow will be here soon and you do not need to catch a cold on top of what already ails you.”

“I have a perfectly good standard-issue tarp under the hole to catch precipitation,” Cullen grumbles, but he feels that this, much like the question of returning to bed, is a losing battle.

“Half of your bed was soaked after last night.” Roxanne gives no quarter, and Cullen finds that he does not want her to. “Half of it, Cullen. In fact, I would not be surprised if Leliana already started the rumors that your ascetic habits and penchant for caring for others before tending to your own needs caused your illness.” Her expression is fierce, eyes bright, and she is still gripping his hand; Cullen has no intention of asking her to let go any time soon, even though she is practically scolding him. “You _will_ get better. You _will_ beat this addiction; and you _will_ remain Commander. My Commander.” She leans forward and he can feel her breath on his face as she articulates: “Am I understood?”

He could give a dozen different answers. He could start explaining, offering reasons, clarifying, denying or delaying… but she does not deserve that.

What she deserves, his lady of Fade-green and lyrium blue, his Herald of Pride and Joy, absolute ruler of his life, is the truth.

So he lifts her hand to his lips, breathes a feather-light kiss on her knuckles, then turns their still entwined hands, opens his fingers and whispers into her palm with another kiss what he can offer for now.

“As you wish.”


End file.
